Parody and Old Jokes
by Catalina More
Summary: In a plot littered with sexual innuendos and campy jokes just waiting to be dropped, everything that would go wrong will in this story that belongs in every genre. Contains offensive content... be warned.
1. The Plan

This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

It was a warm September night. The oldest house in Brooklyn was still and peaceful, a stoic picture of bygone days. A warm light, electric, was on in an upper room. Below, the bushes were still, no creeping Karloffs to plague the house in a nightmarish fashion. It was the tail-end of summer, one of the evenings that made the world wish it would stay summer for all eternity.

Within, two sisters were seated across from each other at the dining room table. They were elderly, but still oddly spry, their outward physical appearances the only drag on inwardly young, charitable souls. There were candles lit, and there was an empty bottle of homemade elderberry wine on the edge of the table. The tall, willowy sister let out a giggle.

"This... Is a fantastic idea. Possibly the best one yet, my dear sister." She twined her fingers in a great pile of grey hair atop her head. "It trumps the toy drive, the soup kitchens... But, how _exactly_ do you believe this will work?"

The other sister pursed her lips over a cup of tea. She chuckled in kind, creating bubbles across the surface. "We're two old women! How would anyone suspect, Martha, dear?" She winked and shook her finger scoldingly. The sister named Martha giggled as well. "We're far too sweet for that. And, if you think about it, the old men in question are quite an eyesore to the general public."

"Indeed, Abby. But not to us. We have use for them... While this 'general public' does not." Martha adjusted her high collar and smiled in an uncharacteristically devilish way. "I think you're right. We will be doing the humble community of Brooklyn a great service."

Abby poured herself another cup of tea, the caffeine showing no obvious effect on her ability to speak or judge. "I do believe that the lack of our elderly old fellows in metropolitan New York will come to be quite the..." She coughed, "Benefit to the economy. As a plus, there will be much less road rage, I think." **[She speaks of a hail of elderly men being run over by the recent inundation of automobiles in Gilded-Age New York. Those "fast-moving demons" were perhaps the biggest cause of death in male senior citizens during that time... Besides the Brewster sisters, of course.]**

"You know," continued Martha, reaching for the empty wine bottle and eyeing it, "no one will ever be able to refuse a glass of delicious homemade wine. Not from us."

Abby nodded vigorously. "Exactly my thoughts. It just _oozes_ memories of the old days. And you know how elderly folk feel about the old days." She smirked, disregarding the insult she just launched upon herself and her sibling. It was perhaps their greatest idiosyncrasy, that they could not admit their true age. Perhaps the death of their dear father had caused it, or perhaps it was deep-seated neurosis. **[For sure it's the latter.] **

There was a great clattering of feet on the floor above, and the noise trailed down the stairs and into the living and dining rooms. It was Teddy Brewster, the beloved aunts' nephew and adoptive ward. He was a grown man, obviously, but he obviously displayed a sort of childish aura. Perhaps it was he was beyond mere imagination; he thought himself to be Theodore Roosevelt, through and through. It showed in his clothing, and hair styling. A set of drab fatigues was his choice for the day.

"Hallo, aunts! The plans for Panama are going BULLY! Just BULLY!" He grinned from underneath a proud walrus mustache. Abby and Martha smiled, a hint of sympathy in with the happiness. They did not find him mad, just slightly beyond help. The siblings had agreed to humor him so that he would not undergo some sort of breakdown like his oddball of a brother, Jonathan.

They exchanged glances. "Panama?" They knew, of course, that 'Panama' was actually the cellar of the old house. Teddy was planning with his 'Cabinet' to begin digging a series of 'locks' in the expansive underground space.

"Yes, Panama! It's going positively BULLY!" He smiled widely, still. "The Cabinet and I are planning to advance into the country and dig a system of locks in the Canal. It will be the biggest transportational advance of the CENTURY!" Teddy thrust a proud fist across his body as the sisters' eyes widened with yet another addition to the plan.

Abby was the one to speak up, her voice a facade of concern and surprise. "Do be careful of the yellow fever, Teddy, and be sure to throw them out of reach. Right into the locks, that's the ticket." Her use of history and truth was enough to keep her nephew in the dark about what they were truly planning to do. **[The calculating old nutter...]**

"Oh, you are right, dear Aunt Abby..." His voice was genuinely realizing, and he turned to mount the stairs. "I shall have to make the preparations, darling aunts." He mounted the stairs, and with a frenetic hail of stomping and exclamation of "CHAAAAARGE!" Teddy Brewster was out of sight again. Above, the aunts heard his voice, low, speaking with his 'Cabinet'. Ah, well...

Martha grinned and turned back to her sister, who remained across the small table. "You are good, dear sister."

"Oh, I try, Martha. I try." They shared a grin as they cleaned up the remnants of the night's meal, snuffing the candles and replacing the small flickers with a burst of modern-day electricity. "Now, we musn't do anything just yet. The dear Reverend Dr. Harper will be over tomorrow afternoon with his adorable young Elaine."

Abby closed the creaking door of the hutch on the other side of the room, the lights flickering off of green bottles of wine stored away for later 'use'. "Indeed, that man is a saint with people. He knows when something is amiss with a soul..."

"But when they leaves," the grey-haired Martha prompted, "We begin as soon as possible. List, perhaps, an advertisement for Good Hospitality and a Comfortable Bed in the newspaper. For only lonely old men feel the draw of the past..."

Abby tittered and sunk into the cushions of the sofa. "I simply can't wait!"

"Nor can I, sister Abby. Nor can I." **[We haven't had manflesh in so long!]**

End of Chapter One.

Afternotes: Side notes are my thoughts on the dialogue, rather reminiscent of a PhanWank (Phantom of the Opera parody). Otherwise, certain humorous references (such as Teddy's overuse of the Bully Gun) are taken directly from the author's ideas during watching the play.


	2. A Fated Meeting

This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

The late morning was fresh, with a slight bite of autumn on the breeze. A bird sang in the tree outside Teddy Brewster's window, and the man in question threw open the pane and blew his bugle in an angry blast in the bird's general direction. The sound carried across the windy, weathered cemetery, all the way to the episcopal parsonage. The bird fell from the tree with a panicked screech, and a drunk in the street roused from a whiskey-induced sleep. "Whuh the he-ell..." The window shut with a perfunctory slam.

Downstairs, the sisters bustled about the enlarged dining room table, lifting a perfectly white, airy tablecloth over the polished surface. A hunter green table runner was set over the snowy layer, and a set of plates and silverware were pushed into straight perfection in eight places. There was a vase of fresh lilies on the table, a painful reminder of the season that was threatening to pass at any moment. The setting was finished at eleven o'clock in the morning, and the dinner was to take place at half past two. **[Overachievers, aren't we? Guess the Brewster sisters have nothing to do but clean, perform works of charity, and plot their tenants' demise...]**

"Now, remember, Abby," Martha said, stirring a pot of stew, "No word or thought of what we discussed last night." Her sister nodded and replied simply with a finger to her lips. They continued in silence for an hour or so, a dark air of shady plots hanging in the air. Delicious smells wafted through the small space. Cooking was the Brewster sisters' speciality, especially soups and oddly-named desserts.

The two had just sat down for a rest while their strawberry-banana-inside-out-cakething baked in the oven. The doorbell rang. Abby sprang up in a burst of youthful exuberance and peeped out the small slit in the curtains near the door. "Oh, Martha, it's darling Mortimer," she said happily, unlocking the door and throwing it open for her other nephew. "Hello, Mortimer, dear. A pleasure to see you as always!"

There was a hail of embraces as Martha and Abby greeted the disgruntled journalist. Mortimer Brewster was a journalist for the large local newspaper. He had just been transferred to the Reviews department, specifically that pertaining to the theater. He was an intellectual man of otherwise plain appearance, wearing suits on a daily basis, his blonde hair combed to the side. He was a gentleman, if there ever was one. "Good to see you as well, Aunts," he said quietly. His briefcase was placed on the windowseat in a haphazard manner. Mortimer was at home, for now.

"So, dear, what brings to our pastoral little piece of Brooklyn this afternoon?" Martha asked, sitting in an armchair across from the young man. "Normally on a Saturday afternoon you'd be working, wouldn't you? No rest for those who work?" Abby clattered in with a tray of tea, and offered to her nephew. He accepted, gladly, and sipped on the tea.

The cup made a slight clink as it was set down on the end table next to the telephone. "They gave me the day off. I was suppose to go to the Noble this evening, but it burned down three days ago. Guess that means I'm off the hook." He smiled, satisfied with the luckiness of the situation. **[I bet you burned it down, you FIEND.]** It was true Mortimer hated the theater in many respects, if not all of them. It was a big deal to be free from the binds of his career for an extra half a day.

"Oh, what a pleasant surprise! For you _and _us," Abby murmured, taking a generous drink of her own tea. "Perhaps you can stay for dinner? The Reverend Dr. Harper and his lovely daughter are gracing us with their presence at our table this evening..."

Mortimer raised an eyebrow as he crossed and uncrossed his ankles. "He has a _daughter_? Wouldn't that menace have sent his daughter away to a convent by now?" Another fact on this fellow was perhaps that he loathed all organized religions and their leaders, and refused to confrm to any of them, specifically ones that required a positive outlook on life, a pure mouth and mind, as well as the imposing idea of _chastity_. **[But somehow, you flirt and use Bible verses in the process. What is WRONG with you?]**

Martha and Abby chuckled. "Yes. He considered sending her away at the age of sixteen, but it turns that precious child is quite bullheaded when it comes down to it," replied the taller sister, smirking at her nephew's smarting wit. "Elaine has quite a lot of sway over people if she desires it. Those green eyes of hers have broken many a heart amongst her father's young male parishoners."

Mortimer shivered. "Hm. Sounds like an interesting person, I suppose." He contented himself by thinking about what sort of person would turn out from being raised in the community of a parsonage. Probably good at sewing, outwardly silent. Typically wearing a habit.

"She bears quite an interest in the theater, much to her father's dismay," Abby added, staring up at the ceiling. "Perhaps you can regale her with some news of the shows this evening, as our talk typically bores the poor young woman to tears." She scrunched her shoulders and sighed.

Martha cocked her head. "I believe the cake is done, Abby. Let's leave Mortimer to his thoughts, shall we?" They nodded and left him with a pat on the head. He offered a small smile to them and leaned his head on the slope of the sofa's backing. He was quite the tired one these days, what with adapting to a new post that demanded hours that went far later into the night than writing for documentation of legal trials. Slowly, his eyes lolled and shut, the sunlight prickling vainly against the nerves in his lids.

Two hours passed, and the two sisters tried to give their nephew a slight afternoon of peace. In a vain attempt to let the last days of summer in, Abby silently cracked the window nearest the door. A gentle whisper of the breeze rolled in, laced with the scent of late-summer flowers. The world of Brooklyn was at peace. **[For now...]**

The doorbell rang, forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. Mortimer crashed off the couch and onto the rug, surprised. "AL?! I told you, I'm not... going in tonight..." He sat up, absentmindedly brushing his blonde hair back to the right side. He stretched as he stood, straightening his tie. They were here, he realized, yawning. Martha opened the door, and a young woman stepped in, followed by a taller man. The sun, right where the door faced, created an uncomfortably bright patch of light right behind the visitors.

"Good afternoon, Reverend, Elaine," Martha said cordially, inclining her head politely as the two stepped in. "My sister's in the kitchen finishing the supper. We didn't expect you so early. Perhaps my nephew Mortimer can keep you entertained." She turned her head in Mortimer's direction, smiling. The young man took the hand that was shielding his eyes and held it out for Elaine to shake. He nearly jumped to find her grip was fairly tight for such a small person. **[This grip will prove useful in later situations... Muahaha.]**

"Hello, Mortimer. I'm Elaine Harper," she said. Her voice was beautifully light, but also persuasive in an unexplicable manner. She was small, nearly two heads shorter than himself, with long blonde-red hair, and the strangest eyes. She appeared very young, but there was something, something... Mature about her.

Her father broke in. "Ahh, Mortimer Brewster. I'm Reverend Harper." Mortimer wasn't paying much attention as he grasped the Reverend's hand, instead looking at Elaine as she walked to the window and looked out at the street. She mentioned something about a lovely view of the cemetery, and then time began to blur. His mind, in some sort of fit, began to fast forward, straight through getting to know the Reverend and his daughter, the supper, and straight through to dessert. **[Sounds like a bad Adam Sandler film.]**

Mortimer looked up from his plate as his aunts carried the dishes away into the kitchen. He cleared his throat. "Aunts, I'm going out for a breath of air in the backyard. I'll skip dessert, I think," he called, pulling his obviously-used napkin from his lap and making his escape through a hall straight behind his seat. Abby made a surprised face at his retreating back.

"Erm... Miss Brewster?" Elaine chimed in to Abby. "I believe I'm going to head into the back for a while as well..." She was much more tactful and swift in her escape, moving subtlely and quickly. Her father's glance toward the kitchen was one of sheer bewilderment. Looks like his daughter was at it again. **[I believe 'at it' is a stark understatement...]**

In the garden, Mortimer strode along the fence, nearly fifty feet away from the back door. The old Brewster home had one of the largest backyards in the state to its name, with a creaking yew tree and numerous flowerbeds lining its landscape. The young journalist let his hand clatter against each post, the dull sound breaking through his confusion. "I wonder what happened... Why did everything..." He bit his tongue. He had woken up, the doorbell ringing, and then... He willed it to be a panic attack.

"What happened," echoed Elaine to herself across the yard. She ran her fingers over the velvety petals of late-summer marigolds. The leaves rustled, prickly and stained with earth. She herself had felt time go extremely slowly, perhaps almost to the point of her fainting. The innocent young woman wondered if it had to do with the atmosphere, or the smell of the food. Perhaps she had felt out of place. Her eyes travelled upward on a track towards Mortimer. Or perhaps it was Mortimer, with his casual, unassuming secularness. He was everything she had never been allowed.

The man across the garden had slowly rotated his head, painstakingly staring over at Elaine. She was lovely, _beautiful_, perhaps, but she was the one thing that he could never have or take for himself. Her father would probably shove a stake through him first, or fling holy water in his eyes. The critic was mostlikely better off alone. And then, much to his great excitement (though he refused to admit it to himself), the woman herself was walking, or more like _gliding_, toward him. A marigold was tucked behind her ear, a similar color to that of her hair.

"This time of year is wonderful, isn't it?"

Mortimer nearly threw up the dinner he hadn't actually tasted. "Yes you- I mean, yes, it is." He chuckled as his ears flushed. Elaine laughed too, striding beside him. He was bashful in the face of no woman, typically. But now he felt the ground disappear under his feet, as though he were floating around on the twilit lawn.

"Your aunts keep a lovely house, Mortimer," she said then, her voice the choir of angels to his dispair. "I find myself much at peace here, though time has stopped around me." Elaine smiled, showing a mouth of straight, white teeth. It was rather quirky, the way her eyebrow elevated itself in a questioning way every time she showed a bit of happiness.

The journalist found himself snorting at her former comment. "I felt as though time was rushing past me today, like I had no place to be sitting and waiting..." They came to the base of the wide yew, and Mortimer ran his fingers over the aged bark.

"Perhaps we can help each other with our own time," Elaine murmured, dropping unceremoniously to her knees to sit in the soft grass amongst the roots of the tree. "Your time moves quickly, mine slowly... It only makes sense, silly." She patted the ground beside her, as though inviting the fellow to sit beside her on a cushioned seat back in the house.

Mortimer blushed furiously, turning his chin to look up at the branches above. She was so forward. Perhaps this is what his aunts had warned him about... And yet, somehow it did seem right. Every girl he'd tried to woo had proven much too difficult. And now, it appeared that the perfect girl had just crawled into his lap. **[Bow-chicka-wow-wow...] **

Her hand slowly tip-toed its way up to his. She began exploring the roughed surface as a child might its father's hand, tracing light, lingering lines over the palm, pressing just slightly on each of the fingers. Mortimer sighed and looked down at her. She looked up at him. Both let out a slight grunt, facing away, embarrassed. And then, just when he thought she had grown afraid, Elaine laced her small, feminine hand through Mortimer's calloused one.

"I, uh..."

"Let's just sit here like this for awhile. I think the clock's falling back into place."

The sun set over the next house by the fence, bathing the entire neighborhood in an amber glow. The two, eyes closed and bodies relaxed into natural positions against the yew tree, were petrified in a statuesque picture. Time seemed to be a tangible thing, just in the distance, and yet, a nonexistent notion from the past. **[AWW.]**

Afternotes: This ended up way longer than I'd planned, and it didn't feel right when I split it up. Well, splah, there we have it. The meeting of Elaine and Mortimer... *melts* Eheh.

What comes next is highly unexpected.


	3. 28 Days Later in Brooklyn

This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

Mortimer's nose prickled at the very smell of whatever seemed to have permeated the air. He awoke slowly, shaking his head. Something about the way the ground felt under his body felt incorrect, as though it were simply painted cotton. His heartbeat was erratic, and the color of the world seemed to have paled in the eerie darkness. Worst of all, the faint weight of Elaine's hand was gone from his.

No. Elaine herself was gone from beside him.

The young man got up and glanced around the yard. Everything seemed to be in disarray- the yew tree above had been decimated to a frail, silvery skeleton, and the grass was up to the backs of his knees. The flowerbeds were overgrown and shriveling, and the looming Brewster house itself had a bit of a disheveled aura about it. It seemed as though the entire place, his beloved childhood home, had become a nightmare. **[No shit, Sherlock.]**

Trying to get his scattered mind together, Mortimer began to jog towards the back door. "Aunt Abby, Aunt Martha? Elaine? Reverend Harper?!" Each call became more and more frantic, bleaker. The thick wrought-iron door to the breezeway fell open with a heart-stopping creak, the only sound anything had made besides the understated wind that whistled by every so often. "Hello?" Mortimer called, a question and a plea. "Is anyone home?"

His steps made reverberating echoes throughout the hallway, whose walls were stained and peeling. The place was cold and empty, inhabited only by the remains of life it had once supported. It seemed like years had passed since his head had lolled back under the September stars, and now the world itself was grinding to a halt. The front room was how it had been left when Mortimer had been there that afternoon, the table set but bare, save for a broken bottle laying in a pool of dark purple. Wine, he guessed.

"Abby? Martha?" The quivering critic called. "Elaine? ELAINE!" He sighed and sat down on the sofa, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up unpleasantly. Perhaps this was what he got for taking the afternoon off. An eternity of hell to pay.

Behind Mortimer, the door to the drafty old cellar slowly swung open. It groaned, a plaintive sound in the silence. He whirled around and recoiled from the back of the seat very slowly, putting more distance between himself and the deep darkness. There was a low, throaty sound in the basement, one as painful as death itself. **[The way this stuff is going, it wouldn't surprise me if death itself had paid dear old Mortimer a visit...]**

"MORTIMER!"

There was a scream that echoed up the dank passage. It throttled the man straight to the core, sending him rocketing down the stairs of the cellar, jumping and tripping over a few steps in between. The low-ceilinged room was lined along the walls with wine bottles, and across from him was the double-door into his grandfather's old laboratory. These were thrown open, sending an abnormal stream of cold air out into the space.

"Mortimer?!"

It was Elaine's voice. Mortimer raced across the packed dirt floor and into the altogether different surroundings of the sterile medical lab, where the young woman was laid straight across an old gurney. "E-Elaine..." He gasped. His eyes raced across her small body **[No, that's not perverted at all.]**, finding no clear evidence of harm. Her chest was heaving **[DEAR GOD, MAN, WHY ARE YOU LOOKING?] **and it appeared she was just as frightened as he was. "Are you okay?" **[Well it's not like you **_**wouldn't **_**know, after looking her over. Next time, I beat you with a feckin' stick.]**

"Yes, Mortimer, I'm - I'm okay," she choked. Her emerald eyes were wide with fear, looking past him into the outside chamber. "But... I woke them up..." Salty streams stemmed from her eyes, and she sat up and leaned around Mortimer. There was a slight vibration that rumbled through the earthen floor, a disturbance of the space. He ignored it.

"Woke who up?" He had no time to answer as there was a loud, throaty groan from the outside room. **[Oh, God, Elaine! What were you doing before I got here?]**

She stared into his eyes. There was something wrong with her left eye; it was normally a beautiful green, and now, it was tinged purple. "They smelled it, you see. I'm just a carrier." Mortimer felt his eyebrows elevate, a sick feeling creeping into his stomach.

"What did you - _do?"_ **[What didn't she DO?]**

Quickly, spastically, Mortimer twisted his head in a while turn. A small mob of less than a dozen men, elderly and stooped, stunted by this thing, were slowly advancing. An attempt at a pathetic shout changed into a sick choking noise. "What-" He retched dryly, looking at Elaine, who seemed frightened in a contained sort of fashion. Like she did this every day. "What exactly is going on?"

"They have the sickness," she said swiftly, expressionlessly. "I don't know how to explain it, they just..." **[...are dead old leches who want yo body.]**

Before he could stumble about, do anything, profess to the world that this adorable vessel of God knew what was going to be his death (waking or asleep), the **[virgin] **reverend's daughter reached out and grabbed Mortimer by the lips. **["Oh God, does this make me a pedo?" Yes, Mortimer, it does.]** Eyes wide, the subtle exchange of saliva spread the "sickness" to his body. And he felt it, a sort of fire spreading through him. **[For sure it wasn't sexual this time...]**

There was a rage in his veins, and it consumed him to the point of wanting to kill everything that moved within the nearest hundred miles. He was sick with anger, and the once-tame, civil critic let out a shout. This wasn't him...

Back in the backyard of the old Brewster home, the real Mortimer woke up screaming for his aunts, his freakish brother Jonathan, anyone... Elaine simply opened one eye, the left, and stared at him, bemused. **[She wanted him screaming all the time.]** He stopped his squalling hoarsely and stared back.

"What are you... gaping at?" He coughed.

The reverend's daughter chuckled, opening the other eye. Mortimer sighed as he realized they were both normal. "You, Mortimer." **[Once again, AWWW.]**

Afternotes: Ahaha, sexual innuendos all around. Specifically poked at the fact that Elaine is a Lolita with stuff for older men, as well as Mortimer screaming Jonathan's name in his sleep... :D Oh, this was a big spoofing of _28 Days Later._


	4. One Night in Frisco

This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

On the other side of the country, a light went out in the window of a travel lodge outside of San Francisco. Traffic on the newly-paved highway was practically dead at two o'clock in the morning. There was no sound but a desolate wind rolling across the rolling spaces of rural California. Perhaps the next thing - a shout of agony - was just a tad bit out of place in the perfect silence.

"Ohh, Johnny-" The doctor choked. "You're hurting me... I thought you'd promised to be a little-" His face scrunched up and pained tears ran down his cheeks in salty rivers. His wire-rimmed spectacles were tipped across his face in an adorably pathetic manner as he quivered.

The man on top gritted his teeth and ran his fingers down the poor doctor's back. His tones, husky and sadistic, were lowered to a whisper as his mouth found its way to his partner's ear. "You know I lie a lot, Herm," he chuckled, biting down on the fellow's earlobe with the corner of his mouth. "It's just far too... Enjoyable..." He grunted, a bass to Einstein's tenor.

"P-please... I, oh no..."

There was another cry that echoed all the way to Arizona's mesas. Every other inhabitant of the motor lodge must have wondered what the hell those two shady fellows were _at _in their room. They were being far too loud about it. Then again, it was the outskirts of a major city they were staying in. San Francisco, to boot... **[Well, I would think it would be obvious. Bless my virgin ears.]**

Jonathan Brewster was a bastard, a sadist, a murderer, and a man of more than one face, thanks to Hermann Einstein, M.D. He was the master of teasing, and with just the right amount of pain administered to one of his victims, he could turn them weak at the knees. He was hypnotizing, however much of a disgusting resemblance he bore to the darkly disturbing Boris Karloff.

His partner, Dr. Hermann Einstein, was perhaps his deepest, darkest secret left to the naked eye. The shivering little fellow held all of the things Jonathan never wanted to remember again. In return for his retainment of this valuable information, he gave him a benefactor, protection, and certain other _things. _Somehow, despite his deeply-seated, impossible love for his partner, Jonathan often beat the poor man out of spite and ill-directed anger.

Tonight, however, he felt pity for him, and just a wee bit guilty for causing him pain on behalf of his own desires. Jonathan decided to let the doctor sleep in the bed with him. He reached out and ruffled Hermann's blond mop in the darkness. The sigh he received in return was one he'd heard a lot these days. But he'd vowed, the day he left his blasted childhood home, never to apologize for being the way he was.

The house actually seemed welcoming in his mind, just a little, after these past few months of living in flea-trap motels and lodges along the roads. To gain a new face, two, four, now five, he and the young doctor had killed numerous victims. It was running on thirteen. And, yet, it seemed only right to take a life for a new face of your own. They'd been dying anyway, most of them.

"We need a change of pace, Hermann," Jonathan mused, clearing his throat. His fingers moved methodically through the doctor's hair, healing himself from the habitual motion. "Somewhere safe... Somewhere _familiar_... Somewhere we can take a piss where the cops can't catch us for it..."

Dr. Einstein moaned and turned over in the sheets. "I spring you from prison, Johnny," he mumbled, squirming uncomfortably. "I no think you would go back..." He continued to wriggle around in the scratchy blankets, let out the occasional whimper. **[Awww. Poor little uke, too much in one sitting.]**

Jonathan laid his hand on the small of his partner's back and attempted to still his movements. The doctor paused, but was still obviously tense. "No. I have a place in mind, a place from my childhood. I know I told you long ago that I hated Brooklyn, but the place seems almost welcoming compared to where we are now..." He looked around the dank room, which held only a bed, a dresser, two tables, a chair, and a bathroom. The bare necessities. Nothing like what a home _should _be.

"You have a point- Johnny..." The doctor turned over to look into his eyes, which were surrounded by the darkest circles one would ever see. They were deep, dark black holes into a sealed soul, an empty shell that had turned itself inside out until there was nothing left. It made Hermann Einstein's heart bleed, among other parts.

Jonathan Brewster ran his fingers through Einstein's hair and let them spider down the other man's neck. "I knew you would understand, Herm."

The doctor flipped onto his stomach and squinted across the dark space between him and his partner. "J-Johnny... I hope you understand when I tell you I'm _bleeding, _I think. It's hurting." He bit his lip and blushed in embarrassment, feeling like a fragment of a man, bent over in servitude to another man. **[I think it's more than servitude.]**

"You're hurting, are you? Sit up... tell me where it hurts."

Laboring, Hermann Einstein propped himself up on two elbows and heaved up onto the headboard, resting his back next to Jonathan's. "I think you know, Johnny... You know it's not easy for me... I'm not used to being _yours _... all the time."

A set of perfect white teeth sparkled in the dark. "Oh, I think I can help."

Another echo exploded across the outside, through the hollow walls of the room. "JOHNNY!"

The neighboring residents of the Frisco Motor Lodge would not be getting much sleep that night.

Afternotes: Muahaha... Homosexual sodomy is my favorite. And it fits Jonathan so well.


	5. Death, Memory, and Winter

This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

Back in Brooklyn, the weather had begun to cool down just a little. A light breeze danced over the creeping vines on the front porch, releasing a sickly sweet scent through the cracked living room window. A robin sang a song that would soon be missed, its voice drowned out by the obnoxious horn of a taxi. Inside, an elderly man convulsed in the chair, a cracked wine glass at his feet. Moments later, his violent movements ceased. Martha drew her hand over his eyelids.

"Well, well," the younger sister murmured, biting a thumbnail, "that one at least had the manners to finish the wine before he died." She grinned and hopped up youthfully, smoothing a stray wrinkle out of her dress. **[Are you by any chance GIDDY at the sight of dead senior citizens? 'Cause I **_**know**_** I am!]**

Martha pursed her lips and rose more slowly, surveying the lifeless corpse that eerily retained its upright posture. "Slow down, Abby, darling," she sighed, taking in the face of Mr. Edwinsonn from every angle. "Alright. If he said so. Remember, _sister,_ caution is key in large-scale operations like this." As her sister came around the small table, she leaned over a bit to lift him beneath the armpits.

"What next?" The ivory-haired one grunted inquiringly. The sisters took the stairs slowly, carrying the fellow between them. "I mean, I was a bit nervous last time. I'm not sure what happened after..."

Her opposite tutted as they reached the dank landing. "Well, we have the coffin there, as you remember," she pointed out to a crudely-hewn box tilted against the cellar wall. "And then, Teddy prepares the body, _poisoned_ with yellow fever, and prepares to throw him into an unfinished _lock_. Normally, he'd carry it down as well, but we're getting our exercise for the day." They shared a brief wink when Mr. Edwinsonn hit the floor with a strangely satisfying thump. **[Why did I say it was satisfying? Errk.]**

Abby perched daintily on the edge of an empty wine crate, staring off into the dank space. Martha swatted at a cluster of dancing dust motes, sighing. "You know, I was thinking about our other nephew the other day," she said, bringing herself around to sit next to her sister, who was unpleasantly agog.

"Why are you thinking about him?" Abby spat venomously. "After our father died, and the incident with Mortimer- We swore we'd never speak his name again under our roof." She pursed her lips, a precarious expression phasing over her tight face.

Her sister laughed dryly. "I didn't say his name, dear. I alluded to him." She gazed at the water-stained ceiling, blinking as the water dripped down into the freshest lock. "I think it's time we let _Jonathan Brewster _be free from our thoughts. I daresay we don't need to worry about him, as he doesn't worry after us." Her fingers danced over each other feverishly, and then released to sit on either knee.

"Perhaps... perhaps you're right," Abby mumbled, resting her chin in hand. Her eyes still shifted tensely, as though keeping a grip on something. "I'll never forget what he did to our poor Mortimer. It was-" **[ORGASMIC.]**

Martha cut in. "Nightmarish, I know. There are some things we'll never forget," she sighed raggedly. "The violence, the strange books. The last bit was, I agree, horrid, but it's best we push it away. The more we talk about it, the more susceptible we are to bringing it up to Mortimer." Head was shaken vigorously.

"Especially with what successes he's had with Elaine. We wouldn't want to throw a wrench in that." A weak, concerted smile was exchanged as the sisters stood, gracefully ascending the stairs. "Speaking of Elaine, aren't the two of them going to see another show this evening?"

Martha inclined her head as they reached the living room. "Yes. When I spoke to our Mortimer yesterday over the telephone, he seemed quite chipper." She grinned at her sister, checking the supply of wine left in the bottle. It was almost full, and there was another one in the dining room hutch.

"Seems as those two children are getting along like the birds and bees," Abby muttered, cleaning up the broken glass with her apron. A scent of spilled wine hung in the air, sharp and acidic. That was wiped away from the creaking floorboards, leaving nothing but a stain on the clean linens. **[Seems as though you just used the wrong analogy...]**

Her older sister clucked, taking away the threatening green bottle. She slid the cabinet shut with a thump and exhaled heavily. "I do hope the Reverend doesn't think anything less of him, the picture of the forever-bachelor archetype, the modern utopian." A hand crept up to her forehead, rubbing in a roundabout, tired fashion.

Abby nodded and plopped down in the chair that, not an hour ago, had held a dead man's body. She heaved a sigh reciprocally, a forlorn expression upon her face. "Soon, summer will be over, dear. We'll have to shut up the windows for another few months, the azaleas will die..." It was true, the days were getting colder, and going outdoors had become a pasttime replaced by working on the autumn and fall projects connected with the church and the poorhouses.

"Oh well, Abby." Martha paused before trimming the lamp on the mantlepiece. The lines on her face were etched drastically, making her appear more wise and sagely than usual. "Things do happen during the winter, while we hibernate. But, for now, there's still a few weeks left. No reason to be so desolate." **[Moar necroseks in winturr, sis. Gawsh.]**

The younger sister sighed as the sun set. A robin sang a pining call beneath the picture window in the front room, casting a blacker shroud over the silenced Brewster house.

Afternotes: Ahh, random fillerz. Well, there was some foreshadowing... I'm such an obvious noob. 8D


	6. Just A Night At The Theater

This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

The rain fell loudly on the slippery pavement. Thunder crackled as a cab pulled up to the curb outside the North Star Theatre. A backlit sign over the the large double-door read "The Merchant of Venice". People gradually filtered in, shaking umbrellas, and chattering loudly. It was a mid-August evening, a great time for theater; a great time to be alive. At least, for most people. **[NOT YOU, HAHA.]**

"Damn," Mortimer swore between gritted teeth. He glanced at his watch and then at his briefcase, and then Elaine. The only thing that wasn't a formal part of his work was her. She was looking up at the chandelier that hung sparkling and luminescent over the trickling sea of theatergoers. He smiled a wan smile, realizing that this little woman was the only part of his job he could actually look forward to.

The petite blonde stared up a bit at her escort's face. She smirked and giggled behind a politely-gloved hand.

"Elaine!" The drama critic snapped, his expression exasperated. "What part of my displeasure do you find so hilarious?"

She laughed again, pleasantly pink with amusement. "Your face, mostly. Your eyebrows." Elaine removed a glove and reached up to touch his cheek. Mortimer recoiled in surprise, still not used to her oft use of forward gestures. **[That's the **_**least**_** of them.]** "You seem to scrunch up when you're upset. It's quite endearing, I promise."

The young man blushed and turned to this girl of his, placing his firm hand upon her shoulder. She bit her lip and stared up at the ceiling. "You know, Elaine, you-"

His phrase, pumped with intensity, was interrupted rather rudely by a rushing theater attendant. He stopped to catch his breath and looked up at the pair, making his back stock-straight as was customary. "Mister Brewster? From the paper?" The attendant, whose vest lapel read 'Samuel', straightened his spectacles rather tensely. It was obvious Mortimer wasn't the only one who wasn't enjoying his job.

"Yes," said the journalist icily, his face still mildly flushed. He grabbed Elaine's hand with his free one as the flustered fellow led them to one of the several press boxes high above the crowd. When they were finally alone, the young woman leaned across the armrest between their seats and kissed Mortimer upon the cheek. **[AWWWW. Now I need to go run outside and flail away.]**

As the show began, Mortimer retrieved a tablet and pencil from his briefcase, leaving them alone on his legs. "Elaine, wake me up when it's over." His thumb grazed the back of her soft hand one last time before he pulled it back to rest on his lap.

"Alright," she sighed. Elaine truly couldn't see why Mortimer didn't enjoy the theater; she herself found the experience to be uplifting and humanizing even when the plot was dire. She'd appreciated and took immense enjoyment in his companionship from the start, but when he'd asked her to accompany him to work every night, this sheltered daughter of a preacher jumped at the opportunity. Not only did she get to spend more time with the man she cared for, she got to see him doing his job. **[Not that he works much anyways, heh.] **

The play, a Shakespearian drama, was vaguely dull, as well as recited completely in versicles resembling those of the King James Version of the Bible. The actors were talented, though, making a convincing tale of Bassanio good enough to send the audience off into Elizabethan Italy. Elaine found herself gasping and sighing with the crowd. A few stray tears ran a course down her cheek during Portia's monologue in the court, but these swiftly dried up when she found that Portia and Nerissa were posing as the prosecutors to begin with.

The young woman turned to the softly-snoring Mortimer, brushing her hand lightly across his arm. He blinked, squinted, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light again. "Thank you, Elaine." He gathered up his unused tools and stowed them in his briefcase. Coats were donned as the pair, joined at the hands again, descended the steps into the entrance hall. Surrounded by chatter on all sides again, they exited into the rain.

"Let's take a side route," Mortimer urged quietly, unfurling the umbrella. "It's only a few blocks to the aunts', and it's still a long while until your father wants you back at the parsonage." She nodded and squeezed under the umbrella, grinning to herself. It was just the two of them, their steps echoing against the lonely walk of the sidestreet. Darting a stray look at passing alleyways, Elaine shuddered and took the opportunity to get a little closer to Mortimer. **[Aha. Hahahaha.]**

He noticed the girl's stray movement and looked down. "Is everything alright? You seem nervous all of the-"

At that particular moment, a rather shady-looking fellow exploded out of the next alley, the sound of a garbage bin crashing over following. He looked dirty and was unshaven, his clothes mismatched and in general disarray. "Hand over your wallet and the girl or no one gets away safe!" He shouted, revealing a rather rusty-looking knife from the folds of his jacket. **[Hmmm, I smell tetanus.]** He lunged and grabbed Mortimer by the lapel, leaving Elaine to fall in a puddle. She screamed.

There was more clanging and shouting, and it sounded as though one or both of them had landed in the trash. The reverend's daughter made a choking noise and got up, her heart pounding. She crept over to the edge and peered around it, expecting the mugger to loom close. She bit her lip and sighed raggedly as she saw Mortimer kick their assailant in the side, illiciting a grunt.

"Mortimer!" She gasped, sprinting over to him. She flung her arms around him and held tight until he let out a pained groan.

Elaine looked down at his hand, which had a shallow cut in it. Taking no time to worry, she tore a tissue out of her handbag and pressed it to the wound. Mortimer let out another groan and bit his lip, leaning against a compost container by the wall.

"We need to get to Abby and Martha's before this gets too serious," she insisted, pacing now. He put out his good hand to stop her. She paused and looked up at him, her gaze aging twenty years with worry.

Mortimer replaced his hand, gripping the other hanky-wrapped one. "I just want to sit and rest. I think the cut's stopping a little bit." Elaine muzzled off her conscious rebukes and plopped down on an empty wooden crate. She uncrossed and crossed her legs skittishly, every so often turning her eyes to look up at the injured man.

The drama critic meanwhile tied a knot in the thin cloth so he didn't have to hold his hand up. It hurt less now, the pain dulling. There was a thin, drying coat of burgundy on the clean white handkerchief. A bit squeamish, Mortimer looked up at Elaine. "Hey, you know something, Elaine?" He looked up and grinned at her. She cocked her head.

"What?"

He chuckled and stood a little straighter. "You have really nice legs." The young woman turned her head to the side and blushed, smirking bashfully. **[OH GOD, WHY CAN I VISUALIZE THIS SO WELL?! ... I feel... ill...]**

In a flash, Elaine jumped back off of her perch and stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on Mortimer's lips. As she pulled away, he pulled her back in for a split second. "I need to stop before we get too serious... My heart's beating fast enough to start my hand bleeding again." He winked and offered her his good hand, and she accepted, picking up his briefcase with her other one.

Out in Brooklyn, the rain had stopped. In its place, the clouds receded to reveal a round, luminous moon.

Afternotes: AHHHHHHHHH. AGGHHHHHH. AGGGGGGHHHH, MINDLESS ELAINE/MORTIMER FLUFF. MUST GO LOSE MY MIND NAU. D:


	7. Within Reach

This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

On the interior of a forest preserve, a brand-new car was parked in a clearing. The light in the backseat was on, shining onto the unturned pages of a medical journal. Einstein was propped up against the door behind the driver's side, reading. There was a fresh bottle of alcohol tucked into his elbow. It seemed as though their latest victim had brought in a happy sum, at least enough to keep the doctor happy.

In front, Jonathan Brewster was deeply asleep. Every few moments, he would sigh, or bite his lip. There was something going on inside his head; he was dreaming about something he'd been thinking about in his waking hours. While in the stolen car, he was the adult, matured Jonathan, but in his dreams, he was his sixteen-year-old self again.

He was back in the Brewster house. Jonathan was reclined on one of the Persian rugs in the drawing room, his shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. It was late summer in the Brooklyn of his memory, and the fireplace behind him had been dampened. Across the room, Teddy was pounding out an unfamiliar tune on the piano. The aunts, younger then, were only present through their voices coming in through the kitchen. In the bedroom upstairs, Mortimer was clacking away on his typewriter.

The young man sighed loudly and got to his feet, following the path of his memory out the back door. His shoes scuffed loudly on the wood flooring as he exited, letting the old door slam behind him.

Outside, the garden was in its last days of glory, the grass lush and green. Instead of lying back down on the ground, or sitting comfortably beneath the friendly yew on the other end of the yard, Jonathan picked a hard seat on the edge of one of the low walls near the door. A planter of ferns brushed his back, but their gentle ministration felt more like the mocking scratch of claws.

Through his brother's open window the sound of more noisy typing came. The teenager gulped and squinted at the pavement for a second, thinking that old thought again. His heart raced. _I WANT him..._ **[Eheh.] **He swung his legs back and forth anxiously, then heaved himself off of the short brick wall.

Jonathan paced across the yard, his heart beating in the back of his throat. The aunts already thought he was enough of an animal, so this would obviously break the situation. Just last week he'd nicked Teddy's soldier figurines to outline a pentagram on the floor of his and Mortimer's bedroom. Two days after that, he'd given Mortimer the needle treatement beneath his fingernails for squealing on him. Oh, how he'd whimpered. The very thought made beads of sweat drip down him neck.

The wind blew his dark brown hair into darker eyes. He grunted. _Oh, why'd it HAVE to be Mortimer? _The lump in his throat throbbed threateningly. He felt as though he might choke as the memories swelled into his consciousness. When they were twelve, he'd tied Mortimer up and gagged him to prevent the aunts from finding out about the neighbors' cat. The June after that he'd gotten them lost in the woods, secretly savoring the time it had taken them to find their way back.

And the recent torture. Good God. In order to lash him to the bedframe, Jonathan had had to straddle the poor, squirming boy. The blood rushed to his cheeks as his feet stopped beneath the viny trellis. Directly above, his brother's window. _Dash it all. I WANT HIM. _With that thought, he put his weight in the narrow, fragile footholds. Every inch of ascent made the boy's hands slicker with sweat. And then he came to the sill and leaned there, begging every fiber to exude 'nonchalant'.

His head was resting on folded arms when Mortimer peeped up at him, pushing his swivelly chair back a full foot. The blonde's glasses fell askew. "Oh, darling, _darling_ brother. Wouldn't you rather push _my _buttons?" **[Y-ye- Wait, no! I mean, YES!]**

Mortimer blushed, his jaw falling open. His mouth opened in a thoroughly shocked "what?" but no sound followed.

"I said, wouldn't you rather push my buttons?" Jonathan murred, disentangling himself from the vines and pushing himself up onto the desk inside the window. He leaned forward, staring into Mortimer's baby blue eyes. The other boy made a show of tossing his head to the side. "Come now... Tell me you've considered it once. _Twice_." The second word he spat out almost desperately.

Mortimer swallowed, "Well, I..." His chin remained turned as his eyes fell downward. So he was ashamed.

"No?" Jonathan quipped, brushing his fingertips beneath his brother's soft chin. He turned Mortimer's face to look at him. "Or yes?" The other boy blushed, and before he could perhaps even verify his brother's accusation, their lips were mashed together, with Jonathan fighting for dominance. Mortimer fought merely to escape with his dignity.

The blonde threw his dark-haired counterpart to the edge of the bed across the floor, where his back landed with a creak upon the sagging mattress. "What in _Jesus Christ's name _are you trying to _do, _Jonathan?" He took off his glasses and threw them on the desk.

Jonathan then knew right there that his brother was angry. One, he'd sworn and taken His Lord's name in vain. Two, the glasses were off. The fury in his eyes was often dampened when masked by the thin layer of easily-removable glass. Now, the full magnitude of emotion could be seen therein.

"So Mort's feeling agressive today, is he?" He asked, grinning like Satan incarnate. He grabbed the blonde by the lapel and threw him onto the bed. "Well, _TWO _can play at _THIS _game!" Jonathan pressed his lips to Mortimer's, falling atop him. He wouldn't let go, never, and then suddenly, he realized that the boy on the bottom was kissing him back. **[LE GASP!] **

A flushed Mortimer propped himself up on his elbows. "Well, you don't have to hold me down, you know," he choked. A tear rolled down his cheek, the last sign of his chastity. "It's not like you're giving me much choice." He grabbed Jonathan by the back of the head and forced them back together, and they began a battle to come out, to come out on top at the very least.

It would appear to a person watching that it was just two boys rough housing atop a bed, but the moments they paused gave it all away.

"I HATE YOU, JONATHAN," Mortimer hissed into his brother's ear just before nipping it. **[Om. Nom nom nom.]**

Jonathan made a choking noise, dampening it in the lining of a pillow under his head. "I still want you," he gasped, rolling over to be on top.

"One, don't tie me-" he bit down on the other boy's neck- "To the bed. Two," he moaned, "Don't think you're adding me to your little collection."

The dark-eyed one smirked. "Are you _submitting?" _He chuckled.

Mortimer glowered as Jonathan's hips grinded against his. "No, I'm not," he managed to say. "Good Christian boys can have their fun every once and a while." He pressed back, smiling widely.

The dark-haired teenager, on the off chance he could actually _think_, began to question what closet activities Mortimer had been pursuing all this time. His brother seemed inexperienced, but still there was a burning passion behind his every movement. It was his hatred, his resentment, his sickness of being maltreated. These emotions were dark and sexual, but at the same time acidic to the touch. Behind it all, Jonathan knew that Mortimer didn't necessarily want this.

He didn't care.

Things were getting more serious as the steaming moments wore on. Neither of the boys had any mind to close the bedroom window, which was still thrown in to combat the summer heat. Any noise made could easily be heard outside, but fortunately no one was out . **[Rrrowwwllggrrrrmmmpphhhh.]**

"Slow down a bit- _Jonathan..._."

"Why - slow down?"

"Because, _brother dear_, you could be-" **[Giving me AIDS.]**

Jonathan bit his lip, grunting behind his teeth. "Hold that thought." Both of their voices, raised only in carnal-half song, began to reach a chorus. It was loud, and seemed to reach their peak as the door swung open. In the frame stood a pair of equally-enraged aunts.

"_Jonathan Monroe Brewster, _you get off of your brother right now. Right now." Martha spat the words, and the boy rolled off the bed to find his clothes. Abby stepped nearer to her nephew as he buttoned his shirt incorrectly, pulling him up by the ear.

"Out." She whispered. "You're out of here for good. This proved it." And then she dropped him.

Martha gave her sister a pleading, despairing look, but she would have no was a short, painful pause. The two left just as quickly as they had come, perhaps only to issue a long-expected eviction. Their footsteps seemed all-encompassing as they faded down the hall.

Whether he liked it or not, Jonathan's life was ruined. As he got up off the floor, he looked at Mortimer, who was still naked and plastered in the position he'd been thrown into when the aunts entered. "Thanks a lot," said Jonathan coldly, going over to the other bed to fetch his schoolbag.

"Well... You know, it sort of was your-"

Mortimer's brother interrupted. He threw a hand to his forehead. "Yes, I partook of the Holy Sacrament of Mortimer! But you bade me 'Take eat', so I did. Now look what happened." He crammed a few pairs of socks into his bag, followed by random clothes. **[And I didn't think Jonathan had a religious bone in his body. Looks like he belongs to the Church of Now-And-Later Manlovers.]**

The blonde wrapped a blanket around his waist and went over to Jonathan. He meant to put his hand on his brother's cheek, but the boy swatted it away. "The next time I touch you, you _will _be mine," he hissed. He went over to the desk and threw a leg over and out the window. As the other one followed, he added, "_Next time_, I _will_ tie you up. Bad mistake." And with that, Jonathan Brewster was outside the house, and would be forever, he realized as he grabbed and closed the windows.

When his feet hit the ground in the backyard, the real Jonathan awoke and groaned. He was in the stolen vehicle, still. Einstein was asleep in the back, and the both of them were in the middle of nowhere. The forest stared back at him through the front window, and the young man pressed himself back into his seat. Memories would get him nothing. Trying to fill his head with thoughts of the doctor behind him instead of his brother, Jonathan drifted into an uneasy slumber.

Afternotes: OMIGOD. O. Mai. Gud. I enjoyed this very much. It was like, christening a ship that finally gets to sail.

The message to this one was something along the lines of, "This time, I was too nice to tie you up. NEXT TIME I'LL BIND AND GAG YOU." 8D


	8. Just Talk Of Promises

This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

A chill breeze soared through the picture window of the Brewster House, a new smell sailing in its grasp. Mortimer couldn't figure out what it was, he realized. It seemed familiar, in a bittersweet sort of way. Vintage, like the days that you can never return to. Childhood, watching leaves change, and growing. He shivered, straightening his tie. Mortimer Brewster had hated his childhood.

The young man couldn't help but feel ill at ease. Inside the kitchen, he could hear the faint sounds of his aunts pottering away at the task of dinner. Ages ago, it seemed as though there had been a similar dinner. In truth, it had only been a few weeks since he'd met Elaine, but it seemed as though the two were meant for each other. Tonight, she'd promised to sit back and let her father do the talking. It seemed as though Reverend Harper was curious about the man that kept his beautiful daughter up and out at all hours.

Mortimer couldn't be _happier_. He chewed at his thumbnail, something he hadn't done since he was sixteen.

Teddy bounded down the stairs, and his brother heaved up off of his seat. He was in the presence of the President of the United States, after all.

"Mr. Roosevelt! How goes things in Panama?" Mortimer tried to seem upbeat and hide his obvious trepidation. He didn't know the true contents of 'Panama', himself. There were now eleven bodies in shallow graves down there.

Teddy held his hands behind his back and grinned. "Positively _bully_, sir! The yellow fever appears to have quaratined itself for the time being, no troubles there." He chuckled, proud of himself. Mortimer laughed along with him, happy for the time being. The brothers had always taken care of each other, Jonathan being excepted. There would always be a sort of gap in conversations when it came to the darker member of the trio. An awkward silence. **[Awkward silences lead to gay babies, you know. Looks like Jonathan's name precedes him...]**

"Yellow fever, eh? Never knew you had any issues with-"

The doorbell rang, and Mortimer's heart leapt into his throat. He froze there as Teddy ran for the door, closely followed by Abby and Martha from the kitchen. The critic tried to mime a calm, composed face. His composure dissolved as his family greeted the guests.

"Mortimer," Elaine whispered in his ear, "relax." He snapped out of his daze and flushed, kissing her chastely on the left cheek. The sensation helped his nerves a little bit as he turned to greet the preacher, his hand nearly crushed by the man's grip.

Reverend Harper smiled a rather venerable grin. "Mr. Brewster," he murmured, "good to see you again. I'd hoped to speak with you at length, what with your relationship to my daughter at the moment." He glanced at Elaine, positively glowed. She was his daughter, that was true. Mortimer nodded, swallowing his fears for the umpteenth time. It seemed as though it wouldn't be _quite _so bad. **[Preachers can't murder people; It's written down somewhere, I'm sure.]**

Abby appeared at Mortimer's side and patted his back. "Dinner still has a bit of the way to go, dear. I hope you won't mind sitting a bit." All shook their heads as the small group seated itself on the living room furniture.

"So, then, _Mortimer_, Elaine tells me you're a man of the theatre. A secular fellow, I see."

The critic nodded again. "Yes, she tells right," he replied, squeezing Elaine's hand beside him. She squeezed back. "I work for the newspapers, and my job requires my attendance at performances in the evening. Today's my night off, in fact." His words came

Reverend Harper glowered, raising a bushy eyebrow. "I know that, dear boy. You've taken my daughter with you for the past week or so," he thought aloud, quiet laughter rumbling in his throat. "It's a bit unusual, having the parsonage all to yourself. But I daresay she's happier than she's ever been."

Mortimer smiled weakly at this, happy to hear one of them had enjoyed the myriad of shows. He himself had enjoyed the part that involved catching up on sleep. **[Yeh lazy bum.]**

"I commend you for that. Most men seem content with taking her to various church functions; picnics, prayer meetings, the lot," he sighed. "But a girl needs to get out, especially one at your age- Elaine." He gave the girl a smile. She smiled back. **[In my head, I visualize going out being more of a 'clubbing' experience. But that's just me- it's obvious that this chick's been raised on saltines and Bible verses.]**

The journalist ran a clammy hand through his blonde hair. "Glad to provide for her. It makes me content to do so, sir." Elaine rested her head in the crook of his neck, in the meantime. Her father seemed incredibly ecstatic, and showed all of his teeth. "I am religious, though. Born and b-bred. Aunt Martha and Aunt Abby wouldn't dare have it any other way."

"Oh?"

Mortimer nodded vigorously. "You remember, sir. Although I am passed off as some sort of worldly fellow, I do pray to something other than myself. And I know my words are answered."

"Then, Mortimer, what is your opinion on marriage?"

The critic flushed, his caustic columns burning in his mind. "Well, I -" In truth, Mortimer had never thought of it. In off moments at the office or in the dark of theaters he had only thought of him and Elaine together, not necessarily _married. _The word itself seemed painfully binding, like shackles. "I suppose it's what's right, Reverend."

"Right in what way?"

Mortimer exhaled and looked at Elaine, thinking. "Well, it's a sort of unbreakable vow you make when you say 'I do'; to be with anyone else afterward is a mortal sin. A good way to stay bound to the person you love for - forever." The word 'forever' had the same blistering finality as 'marriage'. There was no telling what laid after death.

Dr. Harper smirked, folding his hands. "Would you marry, then?"

**[The hell kind of question is **_**that? **_**Nosypants.]**

"It's true I've offhandedly snubbed _Romeo and Juliet _as the stupidest mistake anyone's ever made," the journalist sighed, staring the cleric in the face. It was hard for a man as good-natured as that to be menacing. "I've coughed at every love scene in virtually every play I've ever seen. That doesn't make me cold-hearted _or_ solitary. I'll admit, I may have _considered_ the idea in the past few weeks."

The preacher grinned. **[HA! I KNEW IT WOULD WORK! (ELAINE PLUS MORTIMER EQUALS HAPPYFACE).]**

"Considering is all I've done, sir. Don't look quite so happy." He took his other hand and ran it through Elaine's golden hair. She felt perfect beneath his arm. Despite being drilled on his most secret of thoughts, Mortimer couldn't help but feel a little relieved.

They picked themselves up and moved to the table as dinner was brought out. Conversation shifted to easier topics, and the aunts filled many of the gaps left open by the young people. Mortimer couldn't help but feel a little euphoric as he felt time passing, the moments filled with something other than work, other than his everyday worries. Other than the past.

The weight of Elaine's hand on his knee under the table made him want to get up and sprint laps around the cemetery outside. In fact, he would. **[Hey. Looks like you might need more than a jog.]**

"I think I'll skip dessert again," he interrupted, biting his lip. "I need a walk around the street, and there won't be many more warm evenings like tonight." Before he even left the room, Elaine was at his side. They joined hands and exited through the front door, leaving a table of beaming people behind them. Ah, young love. **[So damned sappy. Aww.]**

Outside, there was a clarity in the air. The sun, bright pink, began to set just behind the trees. The streetlights had not yet come on, and everything had a warm, fuzzy glow to it. The couple walked like young schoolchildren do, and the feeling any passerby would have experienced was overpowering.

"Did you mean what you said back there? To Father?" Elaine asked, looking up at Mortimer. He seemed preoccupied, dazed.

The blonde looked up at the receding sunlight. He smiled thoughtfully and blinked, stopping on the cracked sidewalk. His hands came to grasp her shoulders, and he glanced down at her. "Yes, I suppose I did. But you need to understand what this means." He paused. "Me, the picture of the American bachelor, _married_. It's difficult to visualize- I hope you'll help."

Elaine touched Mortimer's cheek. He shut his eyes. "Mortimer. I don't think you can tell. Or understand." She smirked. "I _love _you. I can't help it." He opened them again and looked down at her.

"You too, huh?" His question sounded a wee bit unsure. "I do love you, Elaine. The feeling is more than I can fathom."

Her hands caressed his face, and he looked away, jaw tense. "Then what's so wrong?" **[I have Erectile Dysfunction...]**

"It's more than just me, my self-image...My past is more than I can handle... And should it come back to haunt me in the flesh, I'd hate to expose you-"

She interrupted him, her green eyes wide. "It doesn't _matter_! I may be just the woman you love, but I'll protect you!" He swallowed and turned back, his eyes pleading for her to drop the subject.

Mortimer couldn't help himself. He picked her up and kissed her, sighing desperately. **[*UNCONTROLLABLE COUGHING*]** She smiled her half-smile and wrapped her arms around his neck. They belonged to each other for a few seconds, and then the journalist put her down.

"Alright, alright. We'll be together, I promise. By the end of the month, I'll try to pull myself together."

Elaine kissed him again. "You've made me happier than anyone ever has, Mortimer." **[Minx. Minx. MINX.]**

"I hope so," he said weakly. "I hope you won't come to regret this."

And as they embraced again, it was hard to tell if they would.

Afternotes: Holy God. This fluff nonsense makes me want to go skip around the street and sing stuff from The Sound of Music. Read and review this nonsense, please.

Special thanks to the people that actually wanted to me to continue, the Fedora Thief, and my muse, the re-incarnated Priscilla Lane.

Bah, must go squee my lungs out now. More by Monday, I hope.


	9. Mine

This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

* * *

The wind whistled over the harbor as night fell over Manhattan. Cars came in a sparse stream across one of several bridges, and the electric skyline lit up in the background like a beacon. New York was an inhospitable place now.

Jonathan shifted his weight in the car's passenger seat as Einstein guided them across the bridge and into the streets. Buildings of brick and limestone loomed up like monsters on either side, and he couldn't help but feel a little small. He did not, however, question why he was here. He knew and yet he did not. Jonathan wanted home, and safety, but he'd have to wait at least until tomorrow.

"Can't you go a _little _faster, Herm?" He sounded a little bit too strained. The doctor turned his head and raised an eyebrow. **[Where? Behind this wheel or in yer pants?]**

Letting the plastic surgeon- an alcoholic- drive was a rather large gamble on Jonathan Brewster's part. But he was sick of doing of the driving- he'd done all of it since Frisco up until Chicago. Images of car pile-ups came to the man's mind, and he shook his head.

"Uh, ja, Johnny, I can," Dr. Einstein replied, keeping his eyes plastered on the cars in front of them. "It's another ten before the East Village at least, and I-"

Jonathan broke in. The smaller man quivered under his dark stare. "I can't wait, Einstein." His teeth were gritted. **[*explodes*]**

"Well, you're just goin' to have t', Johnny," the disgruntled blonde countered snappishly, turning around a block of stagnant automobiles. "I can't verr easily get nailed by cops, now can I?" He tossed an uncharacteristically angry stare at his partner.

Jonathan paused. It seemed Herman was getting a bit sober. "The faster we get there, the _better," _he hissed, words laced with cyanide and chocolate. There might have been a promise there, or a threat. All the dark-eyed man knew was that he needed to sleep, and Einstein needed his liquor or they'd both be in a bitch of a situation.

They shot back quippish little remarks at each other for the longest time until finally the surroundings seemed to mellow out. The traffic got a little thinner, and they were moving faster. A sign that hung from a post said "Now entering the East Village". Both men passed an irritated sigh of relief.

Dr. Einstein parked when Jonathan told him to, and the man got out, leaving his partner in the car. The small man analyzed his surroundings and found them rather unsafe. The nearest streetlight was nearly twelve feet away, and there were these strange - _people - ­_walking the sidewalks. He tried to look nonchalant, propping his feet up on the dash and grabbing a magazine. He didn't bother to check the contents, just pretended to flip through. **[Not going to lie- knowing Jonathan, it's probably a fag rag.]**

His efforts were vain. The tapping of fingernails on the hood alerted the doctor to the presence of a - man next to the window? Or... a woman? Einstein tilted his head and tried to determine the _thing's _sex. **[**_**Hermaphroditus dragicea.**_**]**

"Hey, doll," it said. _It _was a man dressed as a woman. The husky voice- not at all seductive- was rough and very masculine. "What are you doing so far from home?" Herman shrank into the other side of the cabin, but was unsuccessful in his evasion.

The queen's hand, though muscled, was rather soft. It caught the German's cheek and stroked it. "P-please, sir- ma'am, I don't- I can't-" he shuddered. His accent stuck out more awkwardly than usual.

"What, precious? Scared?" The man's words were still smooth despite the rising tension. "Such a pretty little Elysian-" **[-In muh pants.]**

A bottle broke over the drag queen's blonde wig, and he dropped to the ground. Poised behind him was Jonathan, and Dr. Einstein had to admit he'd never been happier to see him. "Mine, you stupid bitch. _Mine." _His dark brown hair shone under the streetlight as he spat on the writhing body of the costume one below. "Move over, Herm, that's enough _excitement _for right now." He got in and tossed a brown grocery bag on the floor. Glass and paper rustled and clinked against each other inside.

The blonde shivered and resisted the urge to fling himself at Jonathan. "Y-yours?" **[SQUUEEEEE~] **Herman looked a bit taken aback, more so than he'd been even moments before.

The smirk tugged at the corner of his partner's dastardly lips. "Yes, _mine._" For the first time in a while Jonathan cracked a full smile, and the doctor allowed himself to admire the perfect, white teeth. They were a bit carnivorous looking at the moment, yes, but rather attractive. Einstein blushed and stared out the window. **[Won't you eat ME with your BIG, SHARP TEETH?]**

"That's awful brash o' you, Johnny."

The ridiculously mesmerizing grin held its place. "Well, _I'm _brash, Herm." Jonathan Brewster turned the car into a gaslight motel's nearly empty lot and shut the car off. He pulled out his wallet and counted through the bills, diverting himself. "You know, tonight's the last night that we'll be sleeping in the same bed."

"Oh?" The surgeon felt his heart sink a couple of leagues into the pavement. Despite the often uncouth circumstance of their communions, Herman Einstein had begun to cherish the other fellow's closeness.

Jonathan pulled his eyes up from his adding. "Don't worry, there," he mumbled, pulling a few of the notes free of their fold. "You're always welcome to sleep where I sleep." He smirked again and got out the car. Not wanting another questionable predicament at hand, Einstein dashed after him.

The dark, ominous man winked and held open the side of the door for the doctor. The German could have fainted.

**[I predict a forecast of rain and hot sex over the East Village this evening...]**

* * *

Afternotes: SQUEEEEEEE. I had tons of fun fooling around with this pairing in between studying for my C40 and Finals... :/ Happy Senior Last Day of School, by the way.

More chapters coming around soon, as I have a glut of good ideas in the ol' brain. 8D Hoping to finish up by graduation as something of a present. To whomever's still reading this, and myself. So much smut references on the way, it won't even be FUNNY.


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